Chapter 230: A Strange Dream

Master Albert grew more agitated as he spoke, his functional right hand fiercely gripping Field Marshal John French’s arm. “We are the Highland Mages of the Holy Britannian Empire! Our lives are meant to defend the glory of the Empire and the Corps, not to be wasted against the Saxon War Machines for this damned piece of Gallic earth!”

John French was left speechless by Albert’s impassioned words. He wanted to object but found himself unable to utter a single word, because everything Albert said was factual.

Just then, another Dispatch Rider rushed in, his expression frantic. “Reporting, Field Marshal! Reports from the Western Front state that the Saxon main force has successfully constructed a pontoon bridge over the Somme River section northwest of Amiens! Our forces deployed there were too few to stop the assault, and the defense line has been breached!”

This news was the final straw that broke the camel’s back. John French felt his vision swim, and he fell heavily back into his field chair. Everything was lost. The enemy’s main force was now flanking their rear. If they managed to cut off the retreat route to the south, the tens of thousands of Expeditionary Force troops remaining in Amiens would be trapped.

“Marshal, the tide of the war has changed.” Albert looked at the dejected John French, his tone softening slightly: “Our past victorious tactics are no longer suited for the current battlefield. If we continue with the old methods, we will only ensure the unnecessary deaths of more Britannian soldiers here.”

Listening to the Mage’s words, John French’s thoughts drifted back sixteen years. That was in the scorching African colonies, where the Holy Britannian Empire and the Saxon Empire clashed fiercely over mining territories at the colonial border. Initially, the battle was very disadvantageous to Britannia. The Saxon soldiers’ fighting will and training level far exceeded their expectations, having completely caught up to the well-trained Imperial soldiers. The enemy commander, relying on repeated local numerical superiority in maneuvering warfare, consecutively dismantled several Imperial strongholds. Just when everyone thought the Empire was facing its first colonial disaster, Imperial reinforcements arrived.

John French still remembered the scene from that day. When world-shattering meteors descended from the sky, crushing the Saxons’ dense assault columns, along with their courage and pride into dust, the entire battlefield fell silent. Everyone understood how pale and powerless the struggles of mere mortals were against absolute magical power. That war ultimately concluded with the Saxons voluntarily seeking a truce. It also served as a stark reminder to the entire world that Mages remained the sole masters of the battlefield.

But what about now? Only sixteen years later, the situation had been completely reversed. John French looked up at the officers in the headquarters, who were equally panicked and confused, then at Albert’s resolute face. He knew Albert was right, but…

“Master Albert, you may evacuate first, but I hope you can leave some Mages to assist us! We still have nearly a hundred thousand men here. Even if I order a retreat, it will take time!” John French, the Field Marshal, lowered his pride for the first time before a Seventh-Circle Mage, begging for help.

Master Albert initially wanted to refuse, as he did not wish for any more Mages to perish here. But faced with a Field Marshal’s plea, he could not flatly refuse.

“I understand. Please arrange the evacuation immediately…” Albert paused, then pulled John French aside and used [Sending] to communicate: “Given the situation, the ‘Prometheus Project’ cannot continue for now. We will have to wait for the Highland Mage Corps’ follow-up forces to arrive before we can reassess.”

John French’s expression subtly shifted upon hearing the ‘Prometheus Project,’ then he nodded. “Understood. But what if the Saxons beat us to the punch?”

“Do not worry. They certainly haven’t obtained intelligence on that front yet.”

Morin felt groggy, as if many people were calling his name. When the scene before him cleared, he found himself in a PLA military academy classroom, listening to a basic command course. The instructor suddenly posed a question.

“Classmates, given the above tactical scenario, if you encounter an enemy Armored Mage in an urban combat environment, and you only have one firepower squad under your command, what deployment should you make?” The instructor finished, looked around the classroom, and his gaze stopped on Morin. “Morin, you answer this question.”

“Reporting, Instructor!” “I will order the squads to quickly find cover. The 120mm Anti-Tank Rocket Launcher crew will immediately seek a favorable position to set up! And use Armor-Piercing Rounds to suppress the enemy Armored Mage! End of report!”

“Captain Morin, what are you talking about? What is a 120mm Anti-Tank Rocket Launcher?”

Morin’s vision blurred. When it cleared again, the instructor in front of him had turned into the Vice Dean of the Saxon War Academy. The students around him had all become foreign soldiers, their faces and bodies covered in bullet holes and shrapnel wounds. The exposed muscles, fat, and even internal organs beneath the open wounds were clearly visible.

“Fuck!” Morin snapped his eyes open. The first thing he saw was a strange, metallic gray ceiling. The air was filled with a faint smell of oil and some chemical gas.

“So that was a dream? Where am I now…” Morin shook his groggy head, struggling to sit up. A searing pain shot through his waist and abdomen.

He looked down and saw that his uniform had been unbuttoned. A thick layer of white bandage wrapped around his waist and lower abdomen, subtly stained with blood.

Then, memories flooded back. The explosion, the shockwave, the rope ladder, and Captain Schneider’s shocked face…

“Oh, I remember now. I passed out right after being pulled onto the airship.”

“You’re awake, Captain.” A voice came from beside him. Morin turned and saw a young man in a Saxon Air Force uniform, wearing the insignia of a medical non-commissioned officer, standing by the bed with a tray.

“How do you feel? Does the wound still hurt?” the medic asked while placing the tray on a nearby table.

“I’m okay…” Morin grimaced. “Can you tell me what happened to me?”

“You lost a bit of blood, and you passed out from physical exhaustion after that massive adrenaline rush,” the medic explained. “Our Captain ordered me to watch over you.” He pointed to the bandage on Morin’s waist: “You might have been grazed by a bullet or shrapnel on your waist. Fortunately, it wasn’t deep. Otherwise, it would have been more than just a little blood loss.”

“We performed emergency treatment on the airship, stitching it up and applying medication. But you should still go to the Field Hospital for a thorough check-up once we return to the ground, mainly to check for any signs of inflammation.”

“Inflammation?” Morin instantly sobered up. He suddenly remembered that this world did not have miraculous drugs like penicillin or antibiotics! In this era, even a scratch from a rusty piece of metal could lead to fatal infection.

“I hope I’m not that unlucky.” Morin grew panicked, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. He had risked his life on the battlefield, luring Mages and blowing up streets, only to survive and potentially die from a minor infection. That would be the biggest loss of all.

“Uh, NCO,” Morin asked tentatively, “what medication do you usually use to prevent wound inflammation?”

“We have the Empire’s newest ‘Sulfonamide Powder.’ It’s very effective,” the medical NCO said proudly: “However, it’s expensive. It’s generally only used for officers and technical specialists. Rest assured, Captain, you received the best medicine available.”

“Sulfonamide?” Morin paused, then let out a long sigh of relief.

Thank goodness.

While there was no penicillin, at least there was sulfonamide. Although it had side effects, it was a proper antibacterial drug and would at least minimize the chance of infection.

Confirming he was no longer in immediate danger, Morin felt his strength return. He sat up with the medic’s help, buttoned his uniform, and walked out of the small medical cabin.

Stepping out, he saw Captain Schneider leaning against the corridor wall, seemingly waiting for him.

“You’re awake, Mr. Lunatic.” Schneider smiled when he saw him.

“Thanks to you, I’m still alive.” Morin smiled back. “Thank you for pulling me out. Otherwise, I’d be roasted meat by now.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank your Staff Officer Manstein. He contacted me via radio.” Schneider looked Morin up and down, still marveling: “But seriously, you really have nerve, throwing the ground into chaos all by yourself.”

“Oh? What’s the situation now?” Morin instantly perked up.

“You should see for yourself.” Schneider led him through the long corridor to the bridge at the front of the airship. The wide bridge offered an excellent view, overlooking the entire Amiens battlefield through the large curved windows.

Morin walked to the window and looked down. The entirety of Amiens City was shrouded in fire and smoke. The North City had been completely occupied by Saxon Empire soldiers. Countless soldiers and vehicles were continuously pouring into the South City via the railway bridge he had captured. And on the Somme River northwest of Amiens, a long pontoon bridge could vaguely be seen already constructed. General Mackensen, leading the main force, was steadily crossing the Somme River, flanking the South City of Amiens from the rear.

Inside the South City, the fighting was reaching a fever pitch. Saxon soldiers and Britannian soldiers were engaged in brutal Street Fighting amidst the narrow streets and ruined buildings. Gunfire and explosions rang out one after another, and flashes of fire were visible everywhere. As he entered this open airspace, the system map in his mind was instantly flooded with a massive amount of information.

(End of this Chapter)

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